


To build a home

by ElixirBB



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Drama, F/M, Some Cursing, it's a SWAP!something, like really majorly AU, oh boy I'm really sorry for this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life taught Molly Hooper how to mourn. Too bad it didn’t teach her to mourn Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To build a home

**Author's Note:**

> This is my white whale. It’s been on my computer for a long long time. And now it’s done. I apologize in advance for this. You’ll recognize some stuff. Not recognize others. I think this may be the definition of a crack fic or a shitty fic. I’m not sure. LOL.
> 
> It’s AU. Like a lot. Majorly AU. How so? It’s kind of Swap!Lock but not. Sherlock is still Sherlock but Molly and John have swapped places. John is married to Mary but is friends with Sherlock. Enter his dear friend Molly. Confused yet? Hopefully the story explains it better. I am so so sorry for this. So so sorry. I love you guys and your support means the world to me

Life taught Molly Hooper how to mourn.

 

When she is eleven, she mourns her mum.

 

When she is seventeen, she mourns her grandfather.

 

When she is twenty-two (the same day she got her acceptance to medical school), she mourns her boyfriend, Adam (he was going to propose to her that day. The officer hands her the box with the ring still inside of it. It was his grandmother’s ring. Molly cries, her acceptance letter fluttering to the floor in her grief.)

 

She still mourns her father, his death (even after a year), still fresh in her mind and soul. 

 

(And in between all of that, she mourns her broken heart from failed dates who could never seem to _truly_ understand her.)

Molly Hooper mourns different people. She knows how it goes. She knows the five stages of grief and how powerful and consuming they can truly be. She knows that one day, _one day_ , everything will be okay. One day, she’ll wake up and the pain that radiates through her entire being, will lessen and she’ll be able to breathe again without it hurting.

 

If there is one thing in her entire life she’s good at, it’s mourning.

 

(Too bad life didn’t teach her how to mourn Sherlock Holmes.)

* * *

Molly Hooper went to Uni and medical school with John Watson.

 

He didn’t judge her when she decided to stay in bed for three days after Adam (could have been fiancée, should have been husband and would have been an entirely different life) died. Instead, he climbed into bed with her and told her that were she _any other woman, Mary would probably kill her_ (Molly barks out a laugh because it’s _true_.) He was there when she would break into manic tears and when she would tear desperate pleas from her throat for Adam to _come back, please just come back_. He was there when she picked herself back together again and finished medical school, became a pathologist, got a job at Bart’s and quit said job at Bart’s in favor for one closer to her ailing and dying father in Edinburgh.

 

He was there for her father’s funeral, holding her hand as she struggled and failed to stay strong.

 

Molly, for her part, was there at John’s wedding and she was there for Mary when John was deployed, shot and then honorably discharged. She was there for John when he came back and didn’t want to burden Mary with his nightmares and instead unloaded his fears and insecurities on Molly. (Not that Molly minded, it was the least she could do. Be his confidant when he spent the better part of his younger days being hers.)

 

So, it seemed like a no brainer to call him when she got back to London and lament about the prices of flats in London. “I don’t even have a job.”

 

John grins and rubs his head. “Yeah, I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

 

She groans and leans her head against the cold bench. “John, no matchmaking, please.”

 

He looks affronted and then laughs. “It’s not like that. I swear. Not with him. God, no. Now, _that’d_ be something. Its just…have I ever steered you wrong before?”

 

_No_ , she concedes, but there _is_ a first time for everything.

* * *

His name is Sherlock Holmes and he’s looking for a flatmate.

 

“I was under the impression _you_ were going to accept.” Sherlock tells John as soon as he sees her and before Molly can even _open_ her mouth.

 

John rolls his eyes. “I’m _married_. Happily so. Somehow, I think, Mary might have a problem with that.”

 

“Fine. Coffee.”

 

“I’m a _surgeon_.” John says, stressing the word surgeon, “not your bloody servant.”

 

“Edinburgh.” The man with the curly black hair says, his startling clear blue eyes rounding on Molly, “You were in Edinburgh, a pathologist. You used to work here, you’re familiar with your surroundings.” His eyes narrow at her, “you’re in mourning. Stop it. A dead person is a dead person. You out of all people should understand that.” He gets up and dusts off imaginary dust from his suit (his incredibly _cut_ and incredibly _expensive_ suit.) “How do you feel about the violin? I play it when I need to think. Sometimes, I don’t talk for days on end.”

 

“He also brings home dead body parts and will more than likely experiment on your belongings.” John quips, a smirk gracing his lips. “Oh, he also shoots at the wall.”

 

“That’s fine.” She says distantly, her eyes still studying the tall man in front of her and trying to get her racing heartbeat under control, “I’m a-”

 

“Daughter of a late police officer.” He states (John chokes on air) “you’ve been around guns and have fired your fair share. For practice. Of course for practice. You own one and keep it strapped underneath your bed but you’ve never shot a person. No. You just cut up the dead.” Turns around and marches to the door. “Central London. I’ve got my eye on a place. We meet at seven tomorrow night.”

 

“Is that it?” Molly asks surprised. “You’ve just met me.”

 

“And I know _everything_ about you.” He snaps his fingers, “the name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street.”

 

He leaves before she can say anything and then she looks expectantly at John.

 

John rolls his eyes, “yeah, he’s _always_ like that.”

 

“He doesn’t know _everything_ about me.” Molly states. “My father was in the _navy_. He wasn’t a police officer. _You_ know that.”

 

John snickers. “Yeah. You should tell him that. And then record his reaction for me and Lestrade and Mary. Mary loves it when he gets stumped.”

 

“I thought you never lived with him.” Molly says suddenly.

 

“I haven’t.”

 

“Then how do you know he shoots the wall and all those other things?”

 

“His previous flatmate called the police on him. Greg and I laugh about it now and again.”

 

(Molly has a feeling her life will never be the same.)

* * *

Within the first two days of knowing Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper gets kidnapped (by his brother who offers her money to spy on him, she says _no_ , Sherlock calls her an idiot for not accepting the money), she sees her first dead body since Edinburgh (her father’s doesn’t count, her father’s will _never_ count), she befriends a Detective Inspector (Greg), makes an enemy out of Sergeant Donovan and Anderson (although for the life of her, she doesn’t know _how_ , she was polite to them both, even if Sherlock wasn’t, God, Molly still winces at what he said), helped solve a crime and _killed_ someone to save Sherlock’s life.

 

(When she was younger, her father handed her a gun and told her to keep it with her. “Go to the range, always keep your sight and aim sharp, but only ever use this if your life is in danger.” It wasn’t her life in danger, it was Sherlock’s but for some reason, Molly thinks that’s one in the same, so she thinks that when she sees her father in whatever life follows this one, he’ll forgive her. Just this once.)

 

“You’ve a very straight shot for someone who has never shot a person before.”

 

“I practice.” She says, repeating his word from the day before. She tugs her sleeves down to hide her trembling hands. She just killed a man. She _killed_ a man. Oh, she’s going straight to _hell_ for this. Or not. Because it was self-defense, wasn’t it? It was either the cabbie or Sherlock and for some reason, there is a lump in her throat at the _thought_ of seeing Sherlock dead. Either way, she _killed_ someone. She doesn’t know whether to cry, laugh or vomit. (She’ll probably end up doing all three as soon as the adrenaline wears off and her hands stop trembling) and then she remembers what he said, about her father. “My father was in the navy.” She tells him. “He wasn’t a police officer. Just the navy.”

 

He huffs. “There’s always something.”

 

(Yes, there is always something Molly misses too.)

* * *

Despite the dead and decomposing body parts, the blood and the experiments, despite the constant need to root through her things (he stops dead when he sees Adam’s watch that she keeps in her drawer), despite the need to play the violin at three in the morning, despite the gunshot rounds that go off in the middle of the night because of boredom and despite that for a man so brilliant, Sherlock Holmes is really quite lazy, Molly Hooper likes living in 221b Baker Street.

 

She likes Mrs. Hudson.

 

And God help her, she _likes_ living with Sherlock.

* * *

She takes a part-time job as a pathologist at Bart’s. She didn’t even know they could do that.

 

“They don’t.” John tells her bluntly. “That’s all Mycroft. You’ve met Mycroft, yes?”

 

“His brother-slash-archenemy, yeah, we’ve met. He offered me money to spy on him.”

 

“You didn’t take it.” John says.

 

Molly arches an eyebrow. “Neither did you, I’m assuming.”

 

“I’m curious, did he bring you to a warehouse or somewhere else?”

 

“Warehouse. He was quite polite about kidnapping me. He knew…John…he knew _everything_ about me.”

 

“Yeah. I should have warned you about that. Do you regret it? Moving in with Sherlock?”

 

Molly bites her lip and slowly shakes her head. “No. I don’t think so.” She sighs, “although, what is _it_ that Mycroft actually does?”

 

John snorts. “Damned if I know. Apparently, he starts wars.”

 

“So, I’ve heard.” She frowns, “do you know of a Moriarty?”

 

John frowns. “Moriarty? No. Something wrong?”

 

“No. I don’t know. It’s probably nothing at all. Just…everything all at once. It’s a bit of an…overload.”

 

“You know what you should do? You should blog about it.” John suggests. “All of it. I’d read it. Mary would probably get a subscription to it.”

 

“I’ve never been a blogger before.” She admits.

 

“First time for everything.”

* * *

She writes about their first case.

 

Sherlock has a fit.

 

John laughs. Mary calls her and demands every detail that Molly didn’t put in.

 

Molly is just surprised that so many people are interested.

 

She resolves to write more.

 

(Sherlock gets over his fit when he sees his popularity sky-rocket. The man is incredibly egotistical.)

* * *

Molly accepts a date from a man named Sean. He’s a neurosurgeon at Bart’s.

 

Sherlock accompanies them to very different type of circus (Sherlock’s idea and it’s for a case, Molly knows it is, while telling her that it won’t work out. _He’s too egotistical_ and it’s on the tip of her tongue to say, _does that description remind you of someone?_ She thinks that would probably go over his head.)

 

And of course, things go straight to shit because Sean gets kidnapped and Molly saves Sherlock’s life again.

 

On the upside: Sean doesn’t get hurt. A bit terrified but otherwise alive.

 

He tells her that he doesn’t think they’re working work out.

 

After Sean leaves, Sherlock says, “never doubt me.”

 

“I _don’t_ doubt you.” She replies, “I just wish you were _wrong_ some of the time.”

* * *

Molly stops going on dates after Sean.

 

For the main reason that the only place she can get dates is either at Bart’s (the males at Bart’s stay far away from her. John laughs until tears come from his eyes) and crime scenes (the officers look at her as if she’s a pariah, so, she’s definitely not getting any from there, although, Lestrade- _married_ , Molly reminds herself. _Married. Tumultuous marriage, but a marriage nonetheless._ )

 

Molly has accepted the fact that she’s not going to be dating anyone in the near and (if Sherlock has anything to do with it, which he undoubtedly will) far future, when Jim from I.T. happens.

 

(She should have just stuck to not dating.)

* * *

There is an explosion at 221b Baker Street. Molly isn’t there but Sherlock is.

 

She runs from Bart’s to Baker Street and sees Sherlock standing outside, looking bored while talking to Lestrade and remembers to breathe again.

 

“It was a gas leak, apparently.” Sherlock says.

 

Which translates into: _it was not a gas leak_.

 

Which also translates into: _we’ve got a case, finally_.

 

Molly is just glad that he’s alive and unhurt, although, she’s still having a hard time getting her heart under control, as she runs her fingers over his face and cleans the stray cuts from the explosion. She thinks it’s from all the running. She hasn’t run that much since school, when she won gold in the 500-meter race.

 

(Molly knows it’s _not_ because of that. She also knows that this, _this_ could be a problem.)

* * *

Sherlock says, “I’d be lost without my blogger,” (even though she’s a pathologist…a _blogging pathologist_? She could make up a title. Sherlock did) like it’s nothing. Just a fact.

 

Which makes it harder for Molly to stop the churning and sudden eruption of butterflies that have decided to make a home in her stomach.

 

(Nothing good can come out of this.)

* * *

She cancels her date with Jim when they see the phone from _A Study in Pink_ stare at them from inside the box, left unharmed by the explosion.

 

“Did you have to put in that I don’t know the solar system?” Sherlock huffs and pouts at her and Lestrade snickers behind his hand.

 

“It’s basic science, Sherlock.” Molly says, “How do you _not_ know it?”

 

“Trivial. I deleted it.”

 

(Molly wonders if he’s deleted anything about her.)

* * *

“Oh! Jim!” Molly says, “hi!”

 

He wraps arm around her waist and it feels wrong (his arm is too short, not pale enough- _stop it, Molly, stop it. Jim is a nice guy. A good guy_.)

 

“Gay.”

 

(He’s also apparently gay.)

* * *

She gets angry with Sherlock and doesn’t speak to him for all of ten minutes.

 

“You _have_ gained three pounds.” He says. “It does not…look disagreeable on you.”

 

_That was…kind of a compliment._

 

“Unlike those jumpers. Really Molly. Cherries. You are not twelve anymore.”

 

_And then he says stuff like that._

* * *

She’s wrong. Jim isn’t nice. Jim isn’t a good guy. And _Moriarty_ is _definitely_ a problem (because he’s _Jim_.)

 

(Her father forgot to teach her how to defend against men like Jim- _Moriarty_.)

 

She’s trying not to shake as she walks out, the smell of chlorine assaulting her senses. She goes through the motions. Says what she’s supposed to say and wants to cry at the slight shock and brief look of betrayal that crosses Sherlock’s face. _I’d never betray you. Please believe me. Please, Sherlock. Please._

“Molly.” Sherlock says, “what the hell?”

 

She opens the jacket, with trembling hands and sucks in a deep breath when she sees the red dot in the middle of the _bomb strapped to her chest._ Realization and then horror dawns on Sherlock’s features, until he schools his face into cool indifference (but Molly _saw_ it, Molly saw the flicker of fear and she’ll _never_ forget it.)

 

_I’m going to die_ , she thinks madly, wildly.

 

It’s oddly like the five stages of grief and she thinks _that’s_ why Jim chose her, because, in the end, Molly Hooper doesn’t have much to lose. She doesn’t offer much and if she dies, then she dies. That’s it. Mary and John will mourn her, for a bit, but they’ll get over it.

 

And Sherlock, Sherlock will forget her. He’ll delete her (this hurts most of all.)

 

(She _expects_ to die and is utterly surprised when she _doesn’t_.)

* * *

“You ripped my clothes off.”

 

“I did.” Sherlock says.

 

“You’re lucky no one was here. Otherwise, they’d start talking.” Her heart is beating faster, he saved her. _Sherlock Holmes saved her_.

 

“They rarely do anything else.”

 

She thinks they’re safe and contemplates putting her head on Sherlock’s chest, partly for comfort, partly to reassure herself that they’re both alive, but mostly to just be near him. To feel his heart beat steadily.

 

But then Moriarty comes back.

* * *

They’re saved by a phone call.

 

_A fucking phone call_.

 

Molly has never been _so_ happy to hear that _god-awful_ song than she is at that moment.

* * *

Molly hates Irene Adler on sight.

 

Partly because she’s so beautiful and confident in ways that Molly knows she’ll never be.

 

But mostly it’s because of the way Sherlock looks at _her_.

 

(He looks at Irene Adler in a way that he’ll _never_ look at Molly and this, _this breaks her heart_.)

* * *

Mrs. Hudson has a hand covering her mouth.

 

Mary is glaring at Sherlock, her hands tightened into fists.

 

Lestrade is trying to tell him to shut up.

 

John is staring at Molly, eyes pleading with her to be _strong, just be strong, Molly please_.

 

She wants to tell him that she _can’t_. She’s been heartbroken before, when Adam (could have been fiancée, should have been husband, would have been an entirely different life, one that she would welcome with open arms _right now_ ) died, but somehow, this is worse. Because Adam, _Adam_ would have never hurt her. He shattered her and left her mourning when he died, but he would never purposely hurt her. Not like Sherlock. _Never like Sherlock_ , who comments on her weight, her clothes, her lack of breasts and too small of a mouth (she wonders if he’s picturing Irene Adler while he’s degrading her.) The wine glass in her hand shakes.

 

(All she wanted to do was look pretty. To have him notice her. He never notices her.)

 

And then he gets it. At least, she thinks he does, when he reads the card on the present that _started_ this entire thing. It’s a small book on astronomy. A joke. One that he’d roll his eyes at and she’d laugh at for the days to come (except she’s not laughing now.)

 

Everything she has done, everything she has risked, everything that she will _ever_ do, is for him. It will _always_ be for him. She takes a deep breath and wishes her father were here, she wishes her father were still _alive_ so she could wrap herself in his familiar embrace and cry, but he’s not and Molly has to deal with life on her own. “You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always.”

 

Maybe it’s because everyone’s eyes are on them. Maybe it’s because Mrs. Hudson looks so disappointed in him, maybe it’s because Mary looks like she’s going to _murder_ him, maybe it’s because Lestrade is wishing he didn’t know him, maybe it’s because John is looking at her like she’s the most breakable thing in the world (she is, _God_ , she’s been _kidding_ herself about being strong, she’s breakable, so fragile and Sherlock has smashed her), or maybe it’s because he actually means it, but either way, he apologizes and places a kiss on her cheek.

 

And then Irene Adler moans.

 

(Molly _hates_ her.)

* * *

She hates how Sherlock recognizes her by not-her-face.

 

And she _hates_ being the only pathologist on-call and at Mycroft’s _beck-and-call_.

 

“Did you want to prove to me that I don’t mean anything to him?” Molly demands, brokenly and dejectedly, over Irene Adler’s dead and mutilated body, as Sherlock walks away from them. 

 

“Caring, Doctor Hooper, is not an advantage for Sherlock. That is what I wanted to prove to you.” Mycroft responds.

* * *

Irene Adler isn’t dead.

 

(Molly wishes she were and then she feels bad because _this is not who she is_.)

* * *

“Where were you?” Molly asks Sherlock as he stumbles home one night after being away for three days.

 

“Case.” He responds and falls face first onto the sofa.

 

She shakes her head and grabs a throw blanket and covers his tall form with it. When she steps back, she gets a whiff of something. A perfume. A strong one. A _familiar_ one.

 

(And her heart breaks all over again.)

* * *

Molly hates Dartmoor.

 

The only saving grace is that Lestrade is with them and apparently, hates it even more.

 

“Used to come up here, the wife and I. Happier times.”

 

“Then shouldn’t you like it?” Molly wonders.

 

“Not when this is the place where she first started cheating on him. Really, Lestrade. A tourist, was that not the largest clue?” Sherlock interrupts.

 

Molly winces. “Sorry, Greg.”

 

“ _Greg_? Who’s _Greg_?”

 

Molly closes her eyes. She could kill Sherlock sometimes. Really she could. “ _Greg_ is _Lestrade’s_ first name.”

 

“Is it?” Sherlock asks curiously and then he leaves them.

 

“He’s glad you’re here.” Molly explains in a rush.

 

“He didn’t even know my _name_.”

 

Molly is at a loss for words. “He’s Sherlock.”

 

Lestrade gives her a look, the look that says, _you’re-still-defending-him-after-everything-he’s-done-and-said-to-you? God-you’re-really-in-love-with-him-aren’t-you?_

 

She wants to cry because it’s _true_ (but Molly has always been glutton for punishment.)

 

Lestrade shakes his head and shrugs. “I suppose he likes having the same faces together. It appeals to his…”

 

“Aspergers.”

 

(She’s always wondered but never brought it up because he’s gotten strangely attached to the title _high functioning sociopath_ that is _supposed_ to explain who and how he is. It doesn’t, it doesn’t even _begin_ to scrape the surface.)

* * *

Sherlock drugs her. As an experiment.

 

And she’s angry, she really is, but she’s also giggling like mad because Sherlock Holmes was _wrong_ about something. _It wasn’t in the sugar_.

 

“Do stop grinning like that, Molly. You look like a cat.”

 

“I like cats. Maybe I’ll buy a cat. To commemorate this glorious day.”

 

“Over my dead body.” He says instantly. “I despise cats.”

 

“And when I do,” she continues as if she didn’t hear him, “I’ll name him Toby. I’ve always liked that name.”

 

“You are not getting a cat. _We_ are not getting a cat.”

 

(He says _we_ and it shouldn’t, it _really_ shouldn’t, but it makes her heart beat faster.)

* * *

“Sherlock.” Molly says, her voice laced with anger. “ _Not guilty_. They found him _not guilty_! How could they-hello? Sherlock?”

 

(He hung up on her.)

 

This is the beginning of the end.

* * *

She isn’t scared when Sherlock points the gun at her temple.

 

He’d never hurt her (not physically, emotionally and mentally yes, but never physically.)

 

It also helps that he leans in and whispers in her ear, breath hot, “trust me.”

 

(Doesn’t he know by now? She’s _trusted_ him the first day she _met_ him.)

* * *

“Jim from I.T., Moriarty, Richard Brook…who the hell is this guy?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything to her question and Molly knows Jim-Moriarty-Richard, whoever the hell he is, is more dangerous than any of them truly realized.

* * *

“She’s dying! You machine. It’s Mrs. Hudson.” Molly is angrier than she’s ever been. “Sod this. Sod this. You…you…God…Sherlock!”

 

“What would you like me to do Molly? She’s dying. You of all people know a dead person is a dead person.”

 

“You’re _awful_.”

 

“You’ve been mourning your _dead ex-boyfriend_ for a _decade_. You keep his watch in your drawer and torture yourself with it. You mourn your _father_ every single day and for what? They’re dead. The body is transport. Sentiment gets you nowhere and caring is never an advantage. Being alone…being alone protects me.”

 

“Friends protect you, Sherlock. Friends do. _I_ would do _anything_ to protect you and you don’t care. You’ve never cared.” She’s horrified to find tears in her eyes and she wipes at her eyes with the heel of her hands. She turns around to leave.

 

“Molly.” He calls out, he sounds small, vulnerable even.

 

Molly ignores him. She doesn’t turn back and she doesn’t answer him.

 

(She _should_ have turned back. She _should_ have answered him. She _should_ have done something. _Anything_.)

 

But she doesn’t and she’ll never forgive herself for that.

* * *

“Sherlock,” Molly croaks out, her eyes riveted to the figure in black, standing along the edge of Bart’s rooftop. “What’s going on?”

 

He tells her that it was all-fake. That _he’s a fake_. That he _created_ Moriarty. He wants her to tell John, Lestrade, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, everyone that will listen that _he’s a fake_. But Molly, Molly knows he’s _not_ a fake. Molly knows that despite everything, despite his rude words, he’s brilliant. He’s brilliant and he’s lovely because she’s _seen_ him care. _She has_.

 

He buys her food after every case.

 

He actually listens to her (sometimes.)

 

They laugh about things.

 

He plays her favorite concerto during the nights where memories of long lost relatives and loved ones become too much for her and he can hear her toss and turn in her bed, silencing her sobs with the back of her hand.

 

Sometimes, when they have to run because of a case (which unfortunately, is quite often), he’ll hold onto her hand a second longer than he should and squeeze, as if reminding himself that she’s _there_ , she’s _safe_ , she’s _alive_.

 

After the pool incident, when they both couldn’t sleep, she came to him and begged him to forgive her. (“If I had any idea who Jim was, I wouldn’t…I would never, please, Sherlock, believe me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”) He told her it wasn’t her fault and for a moment, he takes a step towards her, his blue eyes electric with unknown feelings and restrained emotion that he never lets anyone see and then he stops, a foot away from her, and brings a hand to her face and brushes away a loose strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear, “I know.”

 

“Shut up.” She hisses into the phone, her eyes watering. “Just shut-up. When we first met. You knew…you knew all about my dad. Remember?”

 

_“Nobody could be that clever.”_

 

“You are.” She insists.

 

_“I knew you were coming.”_ He tells her. _“I heard Mary talking to John about you. Talking about how you needed a place to stay. I looked you up. I discovered everything I could to impress you. It was all a trick.”_

 

She takes a step forward, she wants to stop him. She _needs_ to stop him. _Why can’t she stop him?_ “I _believe_ in you. Sherlock, please. We’ll get…we’ll get…through this. _Together_. You don’t get to do this. Not after everything. You saved me…you know. I was lost…so lost and you…you just…Sherlock…please, _I love you. I love you_. Don’t…”

 

There is a pause, a deep shaky breath that she hears through her phone and then he speaks, his voice deeper and with more emotion than she’s _ever_ heard from him before. _“This is my note-”_

 

“No.”

 

_“That’s what they do-”_

 

“No.”

 

_“Don’t they?”_ A moment of silence passes. _“Molly, I…goodbye, Molly.”_

 

“Sherlock!” She shrieks and wails until her voice goes hoarse and she's numb with pain and disbelief.

 

(It happens simultaneously. He falls, she runs to him, he dies. She wasn’t able to save him. She was never able to save him.)

* * *

“John, did he say anything?” She asks him, her voice tired and weary, blood still staining her clothes. She hasn’t changed. Even though, Mary is standing behind her, gnawing at her thumb and _begging_ her to change out of her clothes, Molly hasn’t changed. She _won’t_ change. “He saw you. I know he did. John, please. Please. He wasn’t…you have to… _John, please_.”

 

“Molly. Molly. Molly.” He repeats her name over again and he grabs her around the waist and pulls her to him, ignoring her bloodstained clothes (his blood will never wash out) and holding her tightly against him. She can feel wetness atop her head and she knows that John is crying. (They’re all crying. They’re all falling apart.) “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. I am so sorry.”

 

“He was too clever to die.” Molly sobs. “John, I told him…I said, _I love you_ and he jumped. He _jumped_.”

 

She hears Mary choke back a sob and her hand rubs circles against Molly’s back, muttering soothing nothings in her ear.

 

(John says nothing. He just apologizes over and over again.)

* * *

She smacks Donovan across the face the next time she sees her.

 

And then she breaks down because she knows in the end it wasn’t Donovan’s fault. She was doing her job. She can’t fault her for that.

 

So, she attends Sherlock’s funeral and adds his name to the growing list of people Molly Hooper has and still is mourning.

* * *

The thing is, she’s going crazy. She _knows_ she is. Because she _sees_ him everywhere. She sees him in the shadows on her way home.

 

She sees him through the window when she takes his spot and stares out at the street below and spies him hiding underneath a streetlamp, only to be gone when she blinks.

 

She sees him through the messages that appear throughout London, _I believe in Sherlock Holmes_.

 

Most of all, she sees him in her dreams.

 

(In her dreams, he’s alive and when she says _I love you_ , he doesn’t say it back, instead, he takes a step forward, his blue eyes electric with unknown feelings and restrained emotion that he never lets anyone see and then he stops, a foot away from her, and brings a hand to her face and brushes away a loose strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear and says, “I know.” Because she’s not kidding herself, Sherlock will never say the words. At least not really. Actions speak louder with him- _spoke_ , she reminds herself- _spoke_.)

* * *

She stops writing the blog.

 

Even though she still gets notifications of people leaving messages and comments.

 

Some are horrible.

 

Most of them aren’t. The ones that aren’t, will always, _always_ , say, _I believe in Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

“I see him, John.” She says one day over coffee. She’s lost weight. She’s taken on the full-time position as one of the pathologist’s at Bart’s and works double shifts all the time. “I see him everywhere.”

 

“He’s dead, Molly.” He says gently. “I’m sorry but he’s dead.”

 

“Are you…are you sure. They didn’t…no one…”

 

“I did.” He tells her. “Marcus, he owed me a favor. He let me see him. Let me say my own goodbye.”

 

“I didn’t get to say goodbye. At least not really.”

 

“You told him you love him.” He reminds her gently. “Wherever he is…he has that with him.” His phone vibrates and he looks at it, and then smiles apologetically at her, “It’s Mary. I’ve got to go.” He slaps some pounds on the table and hesitates before he leaves, “Molly? Don’t…don’t ever stop loving him, okay?”

 

“I don’t think I’d know how.”

 

He kisses her forehead and then leaves.

 

(If Molly were paying any attention. She would have seen John get into a cab and go opposite his way home. But she’s not paying attention and she doesn’t see.)

* * *

One day, Molly wakes up and forgets the shapes of his eyes and the lines of his dimples.

 

She goes to his grave and sobs.

* * *

Mycroft keeps up Sherlock’s half of the rent.

 

Molly thinks it’s his way of apologizing for his part in everything.

 

She forgives him. (Eventually. But never fully.)

* * *

She stays in London and in 221b Baker Street because she cannot stand to leave Mrs. Hudson.

 

(The real reason is because she’s glutton for punishment.)

* * *

Molly is lonely.

 

She buys a cat and names him Toby.

* * *

She’s gone on a couple of dates, nothing serious. Mostly because she keeps comparing them to a dead Consulting Detective.

 

Eventually, she stops going on dates.

* * *

Exactly three years after Sherlock Holmes jumps off the roof of Bart’s hospital, Molly is making her way home from a long day. She fumbles with her phone when it rings and smiles at John’s name when it comes up. “Hi John.”

 

“ _I’m sorry.”_ He blurts out.

 

“What? John, are you okay? Is everything all right? Is it Mary?”

 

“ _Listen to me, Molly, if there were any other way, you have to believe…I’m so sorry, Molly.”_

 

“John, you’re starting to scare me.” Molly says as she opens the flat door and walks up the stairs. She puts her bag down on the chair, looks up and lets out a small shriek at the tall man with black curly hair and startling clear blue eyes, staring back at her. She can hear John curse through the phone and another “ _I’m sorry, Molly”_ before she hears the dial tone. She lets her phone drop to the floor. “You’re dead. I buried you. I am _still mourning you_.”

 

He shakes his head and it’s only then that Molly sees the age lines around his face. Three years and he seems more tired and weary than she’s ever seen him. “You bought a cat. I hate cats.”

 

“His name is Toby and you’re _dead_. I’m hallucinating you. I’ve _been_ hallucinating you for _three years_.”

 

“I’m not dead. I had to…Moriarty had assassins on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and you. He left me no choice.”

 

“John…” she trails off and remembers every single conversation she ever had with him. “He knew. He helped you?”

 

“Moriarty didn’t count John. I’m not with him…I don’t interact with him as much as I do with Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and you.”

 

She takes a deep breath, her hands trembling at her side. “I suppose I should be grateful…Mycroft too?”

 

Sherlock nods, his fingers drumming an unknown rhythm against his trousers. “Molly-”

 

“ _Three years_ , Sherlock!” she explodes in anger and frustration. “ _Three fucking years_. Where the hell were you? You couldn’t…you couldn’t…God.”

 

“He had a criminal network. I’ve been dismantling it. That is what I have been doing for three years. Tracking them down, destroying them. Making sure that _Moriarty_ is a forgotten name. Molly, I-”

 

“I watched you jump.” She cuts him off. “Sherlock, _I watched you jump_. You…you _died_. I watched you _die_. I went to your _funeral_. I constantly went to your _grave_. When you…when you died…you _killed_ me. You made me…I…do you have any idea I…” she takes a deep breath, her entire body trembling, “ _I love you_.”

 

She sees the way he sucks in a deep breath, takes a step forward, his blue eyes electric with unknown feelings and emotion that she’s never seen but only ever imagined (hoped against all hope) and then he stops, a foot away from her, and brings a hand to her face and brushes away a loose strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear and says, “I know.”

 

She should hit him (God knows, she has every right) but instead, she chokes back a sob and wraps her arms around his neck. “Sherlock?” She asks, her voice desperate and _God_ , _three years_ , _three years_ of thinking he was _dead_. _Three years_ of dreaming and hoping and praying that, that day on the roof, was just one horrible nightmare. She steps on her tiptoes, her lips a hair’s breadth away from his, her chest pressed against his and she can _feel_ his heart beating rapidly. “I love you.”

 

“ _I know_.” He repeats, his hands around her waist tighten and Molly presses her lips against his.

 

(He’s _alive_ and he feels like _hope_. He feels like _hom_ e.)

 

_He’s always been home to her._

* * *

Life taught Molly Hooper how to mourn.

 

Too bad it didn’t teach her how to mourn Sherlock Holmes.

 

(Turns out, she never really had to.)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I’m ready to accept the fact that this fic has probably disappointed many of you and for that I apologize greatly. This is me humbly apologizing for the fact that I’ve probably wasted your time. I do however, hope that you may have enjoyed this and if not, then I hope to make it up to you in the next fic. 
> 
> Again, major major major thanks to all of you who support me and who have given me encouraging words and have helped me get through what has been an extremely rough week. Your guys’ encouragement and love means the world to me. 
> 
> MAD LOVE AND RESPECT TO ALL OF YOU.


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